


first time for everything

by cursedwurm



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Martim Week 2021 (The Magnus Archives), Past Abuse, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursedwurm/pseuds/cursedwurm
Summary: He looks around Martin’s age, maybe slightly younger, with dark hair styled purposefully-messily away from his face and sporting a striped shirt that Martin’s fairly sure he saw on the H&M website just the other week. He watches as he takes a rather large swig from his champagne flute, leaning back in the plastic chair with a look of boredom on his face.He’s cute, Martin thinks, the kind of guy he’d offer to buy a drink for if he a) had more confidence and b) were at a bar--Oh fuck, he’s noticed me.--Written for the prompt "first time" for martim week!
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48
Collections: Martim Week 2021





	first time for everything

**Author's Note:**

> So about two hours after posting a fic in which I gave martin all of my trauma I realised that was very personal information that seemed cathartic at the time but I ry shouldn't have posted publicly on ao3.
> 
> So here's the second half of that fic, with just the happy parts. There's a few references to a past abusive relationship, but nothing explicit XXX
> 
> Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoy!!

The first time Martin meets Tim is at a work gathering in 2013.

It’s early December, nearly nine years after he got his job at the Magnus Institute, and he’s finally decided to attend one of the annual holiday parties that’s thrown each year. In previous years he just hasn’t had the time to - between work, getting his mum into a care home in Devon and moving into an apartment of his own, the last few years haven’t exactly left him with much free time. The holiday party is… nice. It’s very much what Martin had been expecting; kitschy Christmas decorations adorn the function room that’s been hired out for the event, and cheesy holiday music plays from a bluetooth speaker in the corner as Institute employees gather in small groups to exchange season's greetings and office gossip.

Martin is one of few people sat by themself, nursing a glass of mulled wine and tapping his foot to the beat of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree, taking the chance to truly relax after a hectic few months of unpacking boxes and getting his landlord to make sure his boiler is working. He doesn’t mind being alone and, oddly enough, quite enjoys being ignored for once. If all holiday events are like this, he should probably come more frequently. 

His solitude, however, is short-lived, as the second seat away from him is taken by someone who, unlike Martin, doesn’t seem to want to be there.

He looks around Martin’s age, maybe slightly younger, with dark hair styled purposefully-messily away from his face and sporting a striped shirt that Martin’s fairly sure he saw on the H&M website just the other week. He watches as he takes a rather large swig from his champagne flute, leaning back in the plastic chair with a look of boredom on his face. 

He’s cute, Martin thinks, the kind of guy he’d offer to buy a drink for if he a) had more confidence and b) were at a bar--

_Oh fuck, he’s noticed me._

Martin feels his face heat up as he makes eye contact with the man, just for a few seconds before he quickly drops his gaze in the hopes that he didn’t notice him staring. A voice coming from exactly where the man is sitting lets Martin know that he did.

“Hey,” he says, “You okay?” Martin looks up at the man, half expecting him to look annoyed - so he can’t help but relax slightly when he sees that he’s smiling at him. It’s a cute smile, too.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, “Just, uh, soaking up the festive atmosphere.”

The man chuckles at this (sure enough, his laugh is as cute as the rest of him) and gets up to move to the chair closest to Martin. “Not much of an atmosphere,” he remarks, “But hey-” he lifts up his champagne flute, “- Free booze.”

The two of them get talking; the man is named Tim Stoker ( "Timothy if you're Elias" ) and he'd joined the Institute in August of that year. He's a Libra, though he insists he doesn't believe in that astrology bullshit, and he's currently in Research, and hasn't really had a chance to get to know anyone other than his immediate coworkers.

"They're alright, I suppose," he says, "Jon's nice enough and Sasha's… well, she'd be great if things weren't weird between us."

"Weird?" Martin tilts his head to one side, silently cursing himself for being interested in potentially office gossip, "Why, what happened? Did you have a falling out or something?"

Tim laughs softly and shakes his head. "I wish…" he mutters, "No, we uh… got together once in September and things have been awkward ever since. Hence why I'm talking to you and not her. No offence."

"None taken."

"So what about you? Have you been here long?"

Martin nods. "Yeah, since 2005, actually," he muses, "I'm up in the library and… well I suppose it could be worse. Could be the Archives."

Tim raises an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued. "Oh?" he asks, "What goes on down there? Am I missing out on all the fun?"

Martin snorts incredulously, shaking his head at the thought. "I doubt it," he replies, "You just hear a lot of weird stories about the stuff that goes on down there."

"Like what?"

"You know, ghosts, cursed books, assistants mysteriously disappearing . The usual." Martin grins to himself, "Of course, if you believe in that kind of stuff."

For a moment, Martin swears he sees Tim clench his jaw and tense his shoulders, like something he’s said just brought back an unwanted memory; then, as soon as it happens, he’s relaxed again and lets out another soft chuckle at his joke.

“I’m neutral on it, to be honest,” he tells Martin, “I can see why someone would believe in the supernatural, and I suppose I’d be more inclined to believe in it if I had some actual proof, but for now I think I’ll just stay… mildly sceptical of it all.”

Martin nods. “Same here,” he says, “I don’t really care as long as it pays my bills, right?”

“Right.”

The two of them talk for most the evening; Tim tells him about his plans to visit Malaysia next year and Martin fills him in on the bits off office gossip that he’s caught wind of over the last year (the only one he thinks has any truth behind it is Elias having a sugar daddy, which also happens to be the most absurd). Tim is one of those people that’s really easy to talk to: he’s confident without it being arrogant, talkative without being annoying. Martin likes that, and if it weren’t for the fact that he doesn’t want to miss the last train home he could probably have kept talking to Tim well into the early hours of the morning. 

They part ways at the end of the night with a warm, friendly embrace and a promise to see eachother at work next Monday. Martin sleeps well that night, better than he has done in a long time, and for the first time in a while, he spends the weekend genuinely looking forward to returning to work the following week.

\--

The first time Martin asks someone out is in March.

He’s been chatting with Tim fairly frequently, taking his morning break ten minutes later than usual in order to catch him as he starts his own. Martin makes them both a cup of tea (Tim likes his with a splash of milk and no sugar - he’d memorised that back in January) and they sit together on the worn-down couch in the break room and catch up on whatever office gossip has been going on in their respective departments. 

On this particular day, a warm Wednesday in the middle of March, Tim is informing that he and Sasha have finally started talking again: it’s just small talk for now, but he’s hopeful that within the next month or so they’ll be at a stage in their friendship where they can brush off their ill-advised hookup as a joke. Martin nods along, only half listening to what he has to say. 

Over the least three months, Martin has realised three main things about Tim:

1) He is significantly smarter than he’d first seemed. When Martin had first met him, he hadn’t thought he was stupid, per se, but there had been something about his friendly (if slightly on-edge) manner and slightly flirtatious jokes that had made Martin wonder how much of his skull contained a brain and how much was just an H&M catalogue and hot air. There is, of course, far more to Tim Stoker as a person than just that; he’s charming and funny, sure, but he’s also kind and compassionate and always seems to know when Martin is stressed out and how to make him feel better. He also, weirdly enough, knows more about Gothic and Gothic Revival architecture (especially the work of Robert Smirke, who had supposedly helped design the old prison that the Institute is built on top of. He certainly doesn’t look like that kind of person to have an interest in that sort of thing, but if there’s one thing that Martin has learned over the years, it’s to never trust a first impression.

2) Tim is a sly motherfucker. He’d heard from rumours that had made their way to the library that someone had managed to bribe their department manager into convincing Elias to give them and a few friends a small pay raise. At first, Martin had thought the rumour was just that: a rumour. However, when he’d brought it up to Tim during their daily tea-and-biscuits catch-up session, he had let out a laugh and tapped the side of his nose as if to say ‘yes I did that, what about it?’. Martin hadn’t believed him at first, but after a bit of asking around, he’d discovered that three members of Research, specifically Tim, Sasha James and Jonathan Sims, were all to receive a small increase in pay, taking effect at the beginning of the following financial year. Martin would be lying if he were to say he wasn’t impressed.

3) Tim Stoker is so very attractive. He’s taller than Martin (which isn’t easy, considering Martin’s nearly 6’1), with broad shoulders and chest and dark brown eyes that seem to glisten mischievously whenever he makes a joke. When he laughs (and it’s a beautiful laugh) dimples appear on his face and the freckled skin around his eyes creased up. On warmer days in the office he’ll roll up his sleeves and Martin will get a chance to peak at his tattoos; a few minimalist drawings of an arcade machine, a sailing boat, a rotary dial telephone, and a few assorted flowers that Martin’s sure have some significant meaning to him. Martin’s always been far too scared to get tattoos of his own - not just because of the pain, but because he knows that he never wears the kind of clothes he’d need for them to be visible - but he thinks they’re just so attractive on other people. Especially on Tim.

Martin can't remember the last time he had a crush on someone - not one like this, at least: the silly, schoolboy crush that makes him stammer over his words as butterflies flutter around in his stomach whenever Tim talks to him. It's an unfamiliar but extremely welcome feeling, one that Martin revels in when he sits in his bed at night and imagines that his head is laid against his coworker's chest instead of his pillow. Something about it just feels… safe. Feels like even if Tim were to know about it, the worst reaction he’d get would be a kind refusal and an offer to still be friends.

Perhaps it’s that feeling, that safety net that Martin plans to make full use of, that gives him the boldness to ask Tim if he’s free after work that coming Friday.

They’re sat in the break room when he says it, both grinning a little too smugly at having snagged the last of the chocolate hobnobs to have with their cup of tea. Tim’s talking to him about an affair that someone in Artifact Storage had over Christmas and how they’re trying to convince their divorce lawyer that it had been a result of ‘ supernatural interference ’ and Martin is listening intently. It’s not the sort of thing he’d usually care about, yet he’s noticed he’s become much more invested in office gossip since befriending Tim (and he’s not nearly as ashamed of that fact as he probably should be).

“...So, yeah,” Tim says, “Apparently Harry filed for divorce on grounds of her cheating, which she’s blaming on some spooky book the Institute got in last November. Sounds like a load of bullshit if you ask me.”

Martin laughs, nodding in agreement, before they both go silent for a few moments. It’s in that silence that he finally decides that it’s now or never - if he doesn’t ask him out at this moment, he probably never will (and will probably regret it). 

So he does.

“Tim?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Are you, uh… doing anything on Friday night?”

Tim seems a little surprised at first, brows raised and lips parted ever so slightly in shock. Then, within moments, his expression changes from one of surprise and confusion to a mischievous, oh-so-attractive grin.

“Why do you need to know, Martin?” he says, Martin feels his face heat up and he takes a sip of his tea to occupy his mouth while he thinks of a reply. 

“... Well, I’m free on Friday,” he finally replies, picking his words slowly, “And I was thinking if you were free too, maybe you’d like to, you know…”

“Go on a date?”

“... I was just gonna say get drinks after work, but sure,” Martin smiles, “That works too, if you’d like.”

“I would,” Tim smiles, “I’d like that a lot, Martin.”

Martin spends the rest of the day in his own little bubble, barely paying attention to the world around him. He’s proud of himself - in fact, the last time he’d been this proud of himself was when he’d come out to his secondary school best friend all those years ago. He can’t remember the last time he was able to initiate, to be the one to take control, especially in regards to relationships. In his first and only relationship (though he struggles to even call it that) he’d been the passive one, always the one to say yes, never the one to suggest. Even in the situations where he thought he had control, when his then-boyfriend had let him pin him to the broken mattress in his dingy apartment, he’d never been the one to initiate, to suggest, to say what he’d wanted. It could’ve been anyone in that bedroom, Martin thinks. It could’ve been anyone kissing his ex, telling him they loved him, letting him have his way with them, as long as they didn’t say no.

As long as they were like him.

But with Tim, Martin isn’t worried about that. He has control that he’d never had with his ex, never had in any relationship, romantic or otherwise. 

He goes to bed that night with butterflies in his stomach - a gentle, welcome nervousness that he embraces like an old friend. 

On Friday afternoon, Martin waits in the main reception area of the Institute for Tim to finish his shift. He’d changed in the men’s bathroom, from the sweater and slacks he wears to work to a button down shirt and pair of jeans that are both more casual and much nicer, and he’s applied a little cologne to mask the old, musty smell of the Magnus Institute library. He’s buzzing with excitement, feeling like a nervous teenager about to go on their first date - and in a sense, he is. 

It’s taken a long time to realise, but nothing about his first relationship had been normal. Not his first date, his first kiss, his first fuck. It had all been… for lack of a better word, wrong . Everything he’d learned about dating from others in his school - from the shy looks exchanged across the classroom to the awkward, giggly makeout sessions that can’t get too loud in case your parents find out - had been experiences he’d missed out on. Had been a coming-of-age story that was nothing more than exactly that: a story. 

Between looking after his mum, to dropping out of school, to his first and only relationship, Martin had never been a teenager. Not really.

He’ll let Tim know. Eventually.

For now, though, he just wants to have a normal evening, to meet up with a co-worker he fancies and get a little tipsy on a Friday evening. 

\--

The first time Martin kisses Tim isn’t on their first date (as much as Martin would’ve liked to), but on their second.

After a good few hours of friendly chatter and flirtatious jokes, they leave the pub on that Friday evening at around half-nine, with a warm friendly embrace and a promise to meet up again. Nothing dirty, but nothing innocent either. 

It’s the following week when they meet up again - same time, different place.

This time, Tim invites him round to his apartment in Bromley.

“I want to make you dinner,” he tells him as they both wait for the tube at Pimlico station, “Something a bit more romantic than just a few pints in spoons.”

So, after work that Friday, Martin finds himself clutching Tim’s hand as they push their way through the afternoon rush hour. It takes a good hour and a half to get from the Institute down to Bromley South station, and another twenty minutes for the bus from there to reach Tim’s apartment.

Once they finally arrive, Tim makes them both a cup of tea (Martin’s pleasantly surprised when he doesn’t need to remind him of how he takes his) and they both sit down on the sofa in the living room to finally relax.

“That’s one hell of a journey,” Martin comments, and Tim chuckles.

“That was pretty fast, all things considered,” he replies, “It’s not even seven yet.”

Not long after that, Tim gets started on dinner and Martin offers to help out, washing up their mugs from earlier as he gets started on the vegetables. Tim puts the radio on, though neither of them really listen to it, too deep in conversation about god-knows-what to pay it any notice. It’s something Martin knows shouldn’t be a big deal - they’re just making caprese chicken, nothing extraordinary - but it feels so alien, so genuine and just so… normal. As the chicken goes in the oven Tim pours them both a glass of white wine and the two of them lean against the counter as they wait for it to cook.

And then, Martin puts his glass down and asks if he can kiss Tim.

Tim grins at him. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The kiss is gentle, almost hesitant at first. Martin cups Tim’s face in his palm and Tim rests a hand on his side as their lips connect, soft and sweet and lingering. 

Tim tastes like white wine and cacao butter lip balm, his lips soft and pliant under his own. He’s warm, smells faintly of citrus and cardamom with just a touch of garlic from the food they’d been preparing, and Martin practically melts into him, letting his eyes fall closed and his head tilt to the side as their lips slot together and slide apart with a pleasant easiness that seems to come naturally to the both of them. 

Martin likes kissing Tim, he decides. 

Tim is the one to break the kiss, which Martin chases as he pulls away. He chuckles softly, rubbing circles into his side with his thumb. “You’re not a bad kisser,” he mutters, and Martin blushes.

“Thanks…” he says, “You’re, uh, not bad yourself.” In any other situation, he would be cringing at his own awkwardness, but with Tim he finds himself laughing instead, not because he feels like he has to, but because his date’s smile is so infectious he can’t help but let out a laugh.

They eat not long after that; dinner is good, and Tim compliments both of their efforts (but mainly his own) as the two of them clear their empty plates into the kitchen and pour themselves another glass of wine. They don’t say much to each other as they clean up, but Martin is more than happy to listen to Tim sing along to a radio show counting down the top hits of the 80s, the lack of conversation between them feeling natural rather than stiff or awkward. Once the dishes are cleared away into the dishwasher, the two of them return to Tim’s living room, where he switches on the TV and flicks it to an old horror film that Martin only vaguely recognises, turning down the volume so his intentions are clear - I’d rather talk to you than watch this.

Martin smiles and shuffles closer to him on the sofa, resting his head on Tim’s shoulder. He’s warm and comfortable, his arm wrapped around Martin’s waist securely - just tight enough to be a definite embrace without feeling possessive. He closes his eyes and relaxes against him, breathing in the subtle sweetness of his cologne and the freshness of the dish soap that had splashed on his shirt while they’d been washing up. At some point, Tim’s hand finds its way to his waist and he feels him rub circles against his stomach through his shirt. Martin isn’t sure whether it’s conscious but he savours it either way, savours the domestic intimacy and simplicity of it all.

He’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting like that, tangled in each other’s arms with a 60s creature feature playing in the background, when Martin kisses Tim again. Tim kisses back without hesitation, shifting around on the sofa so he’s at a better angle to pull him closer and tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. The kiss starts off slow and gentle, gradually speeding up as they find their rhythm; Martin tilts his head to the side, leaning into his touch as he reaches round to tangle a fistful of Tim’s hair in his fingers. Tim hums appreciatively, responding to his every touch, letting him take the lead and--

“ _Oh_ ,” Martin realises, “ _He’s actually letting me take the lead_.”

And that’s when Martin, in a sudden moment of bravery (or perhaps stupidity), pulls himself closer to Tim, so close that their chests are pressed flush against each other’s, and coaxes his mouth open with eye tongue. Tim lets out a soft noise of surprise, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, parting his lips gratefully and falling back against the sofa under Martin’s weight. The kiss becomes more heated from there; Tim’s hands untuck his shirt from his jeans and slides his hands over his stomach (“ _Fuck, Tim,” Martin gasps, “Why are your hands so fucking cold ?”_ ), and Martin eagerly explores his mouth (he quickly finds out that not only is Tim’s tongue pierced, it’s also incredibly hot). At some point the top few buttons of Martin’s shirt are undone and he laughs as Tim’s lips make their way to his neck, unable to help but laugh at the sensation.

It’s then that Martin pulls away, taking a moment to look down at Tim in the dim light of his living room. He’s slightly breathless, his cheeks red and lips swollen and slick with spit, and he can’t help but think he looks beautiful.

“Martin,” Tim says, his words barely louder than a whisper, “You’re genuinely gorgeous.”

“Oh…” Martin’s reply is no louder than Tim’s, “That’s… Thank you.” He pauses, then, “So are you.”

It’s a sweet, gentle declaration with no ulterior motives: just a genuine expression of affection and attraction. It’s not something Martin’s used to and he revels in the feeling of being wanted, not to sex, not for someone else’s personal gain, but simply for himself. Being with Tim feels like an old wound is finally starting to heal, the pain is slowly starting to wear off and for the first time in years he can stand on his own, no longer ashamed or fearful of his injuries. 

The first time Martin feels at home is that evening, laying on Tim’s couch exchanging whispered compliments and lazy kisses as the evening turns to night.


End file.
